


When You're Finished With This Dream

by spockandawe



Series: Delete, Rewrite Me [3]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Empurata, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Hands, M/M, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 12:35:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18811033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spockandawe/pseuds/spockandawe
Summary: Megatron turns his new hands over and over in front of his optic, looking at them. Watching the fingers of one hand slowly curl toward his palm. Strikingly different from the clumsy claws he’s had since he came to you, if you do say so yourself. You don’t say a word. You’re smiling, a little, as you watch him. But when he turns back to you, he looks somewhat less happy than you’d anticipated.MG: Prowl.MG: I can’t keep these.





	When You're Finished With This Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Like with the first story, credit for the idea goes to [Larrydraws](anna--malkova.tumblr.com) who posted [this gorgeous art](http://anna--malkova.tumblr.com/post/149671727614/ohgod-i-accidentally-aud-on-twitter-today-so-hard) and [these thoughts](http://anna--malkova.tumblr.com/post/149757761909/a-friend-asked-me-about-my-ideas-behind-prowlmegs).
> 
> The basic idea is that in the IDW setting, the Functionist government reacted to Megatron's writings with empurata, plus taking his voice and memories and tossing him in with the mining drones. A long, long time later, Prowl is given a mining drone as a gift as part of an unkind joke, and then plot happens. And then this story does.
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](https://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/184841954341/when-youre-finished-with-this-dream-spockandawe)  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/spockandawe/status/1127797628001976320)

Megatron turns his new hands over and over in front of his optic, looking at them. Watching the fingers of one hand slowly curl toward his palm. Strikingly different from the clumsy claws he’s had since he came to you, if you do say so yourself. You don’t say a word. You’re smiling, a little, as you watch him. But when he turns back to you, he looks somewhat less happy than you’d anticipated.

MG: Prowl.  
MG: I can’t keep these.

You stop yourself from frowning. “Is there something wrong with them? They look fine to me.”

He just shakes his head at first, looking back down at the hands.

MG: Having them is a problem.  
MG: If what the Council did to me is seen as temporary—  
MG: If it’s seen as something that can be _fixed,_ it undermines everything we want to accomplish.

You’re still deliberately keeping your face neutral. You weren’t expecting this reaction. It wasn’t easy to plan custom hands, designed for his frame, without him realizing, and you’re trying not to be offended. “Don’t you like having them?”

He looks at you again, and you wince. You reset your optics, run a slow vent cycle, and lift up your hands in apology. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Megatron heaves a loud ventilation.

MG: They’re wonderful.  
MG: The first time I’m seen with them it will set us back by months.

You don’t ask him why that would be such a problem. You don’t want to argue. This wasn’t supposed to be a fight.

But you don’t manage to say anything else either. You’re focused on keeping your face still, and you don’t know what you even would say. This isn’t an outcome you foresaw. You didn’t plan for it. This wasn’t supposed to go this way.

 _Months_ since you had the idea, weeks since you found a way to make it happen. And all the work it took to keep this secret from Megatron, as well as from the merchants you commissioned to manufacture the pieces of the hands. You finished assembling them yourself, because it was the only way to be safe. This involved a significant amount of personal research and work, but all of it done with a feeling of preemptive satisfaction, knowing how you’d surprise and delight Megatron. Or not, apparently.

None of that frustration is showing on your face, you know it isn’t. But Megatron is still watching you more closely than you like. You aren’t going to ask him what he wants. You’re not going to give him an opportunity to turn the conversation towards you.

MG: You’re upset.

Or he’ll turn it back to you regardless, you suppose. But this is something you’re able to respond to. “Of course not. Why would you think so?”

He doesn’t say anything to that for a few long nanokliks, just enough time for you to start feeling self-conscious and embarrassed over your answer. You stop yourself from shifting uncomfortably, and force yourself to hold steady optic contact with him. Finally, he heaves another heavy ventilation and looks away from you again.

MG: I do understand.  
MG: I can see why you would do this.  
MG: And I can guess how much work went into it.

“You weren’t supposed to guess,” you snap before you can stop yourself. “That was the _point.”_

Even if he’s doing you the courtesy of looking away, you can still feel the pressure of his attention. You feel trapped. Also, you’d like to know if you’re capable of saying a single thing in this conversation that you don’t immediately regret. Slow ventilations.

Megatron’s optic is on his hands again. Watching the way they flex and move. You ought to be savoring this. How you were able to surprise him.

MG: Tell me what’s wrong.

‘Trapped’ is right. It always is, in these conversations. Not when you clash, but when you clash and you try to pull back and try to wall yourself off to recenter, and he refuses to _let_ you. You understand the potential dangers of giving him hands. You don’t understand why he thinks they outweigh the opportunity to repair himself and be something closer to _whole_ again, or why that calculation came before any expression of happiness or— Your jaw clenches and you cut off that line of thought. You’re working yourself up, and even without him looking at you directly, he’s more observant than you wish he was.

And he’s still waiting on an answer. You force yourself into calmness, keep your voice casual and unconcerned as you say, “I thought you’d be happy.”

MG: Am I supposed to be happy, receiving a gift like this, knowing I can’t keep it?

You feel a stab of guilt at that. Anger that he’d make you feel guilty over a present you tried to give him. More guilt over the anger. You push it all down, ruthlessly. As if none of this is really matters to you, you say, “You do make it hard to find gifts for you.”

His head comes up, and he’s watching you again. Now, you turn away, even knowing you’re surrendering ground to him, knowing that he’ll be able to read emotion into your actions. He doesn’t say anything. And _you’re_ certainly not going to take the initiative to sustain this conversation.

MG: What would you have given Chromedome?

Even after all this time, it hits like a blow. He’s watching you, you know he is, but you’re frozen, and even if you knew what to say, you’re not sure you could speak right now. You need to do _something,_ he’s _watching_ you.

You make a dismissive gesture that hopefully looks more careless than it feels. “It doesn’t matter. You’re two very different mechs.”

No reply, not for a long moment. You hear two slow, heavy footsteps behind you, and then there are hands on your waist. After so long growing accustomed to the touch of the heavy, clumsy claws that drones are equipped with, the sensation of fingers on your plating is so delicate it feels almost unreal. You lean back into Megatron’s chest, though you don’t relax, not yet.

MG: You gave me a home.  
MG: You gave me a voice.  
MG: What other gifts should I expect?

You’re torn between wanting to flinch and wanting to laugh. “Less philosophical, if you don’t mind. This wasn’t some grand gesture, it was supposed to be a present.” A large present. A significant present. Still.

There’s more silence, only a faint sound as Megatron shifts enough to put his arms further around you. You let your optics cycle down.

And— You should let this go. You’re smarter than to keep prodding at this. You know better. But you can’t stop yourself from saying, “You could wear them at home.”

MG: If it looks like we’re hiding them, the reveal will do even more damage to our credibility.  
MG: All it will take is surveillance.  
MG: An intruder.  
MG: An emergency that forces us from the apartment.

An assassination attempt, he doesn’t say, but of course you’re aware of that possibility. It’s been a risk from the start, and you knew that. But the probability of a serious attempt will only rise with time. Which is part of the _reason_ you did this in the first place, and you’re trying so hard not to be frustrated with the nuance Megatron is willing to apply to his consideration of why to refuse the gift, but not willing to take into account when considering why he should accept it.

“If I am assassinated,” you begin. You pause when Megatron shifts uneasily, his arms tightening the slightest bit around you, and savor the quiet little surge of gratification you feel. “If we’re separated for any reason, your current frame is too distinctive. Too easy to scan for and track. You won’t be able to pass for a drone without an owner. And you don’t want to pass for a drone anyways.”

MG: Very true.

“With hands, and with a visor and faceplate, you could blend into the working-class population on any part of the planet. There have been more than enough miners shipped back to Cybertron from the offworld mines. That won’t work with your original frame, it will be too easy to find you.”

And that moment of discovery and retaliation is guaranteed to come. Both of you know it. No matter how careful you are to hide your tracks, no matter how you disguise _your_ frame when Megatron speaks publicly, no matter how distant his appearances are from Iacon, no matter how well you conceal his identity online, it’s only a matter of time before someone realizes. You’ll be infiltrated, or information will leak, there are too many risk factors to account for them all. And you’ve been too close to the center of government for too long. If there’s a recorded visual, too many mechs on the Council will be able to recognize your drone themselves. You’re certain you would have been discovered already if the Council wasn’t so preoccupied with their little offworld war.

You try not to cringe at the plaintive note that creeps into your voice when you say, “You’ll be in danger.”

Megatron vents heavily.

MG: _We’ll_ be in more danger if I start wearing them now.  
MG: Even if they aren’t discovered.  
MG: If I become complacent, or begin to depend on them—

He takes one hand from your chassis. You watch it, and from the corner of your optic, you can see him doing the same.

MG: And my hands are a… reminder.  
MG: I’m not going to set that aside so easily.

You can see his point. As little as you like it. But you’re fighting the urge to snap that he doesn’t see _yours._ He’s more than intelligent enough to understand all the reasons that accepting the hands would be a good idea. It still stings that he’s apparently able to decide against you with so little hesitation.

So even though you know you shouldn’t, you add, “You’d be able to write much more quickly.”

MG: Prowl.

You’re already wincing. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

MG: You aren’t wrong.  
MG: And I do understand.

There’s silence after that. Long enough that you reach for his hand with yours. You let your fingers slip between his. Since this is apparently the only time you’ll be able to do that. Even with hands instead of claws, his frame is still large enough that your hand is swallowed in his. It isn’t so different, holding hands with him in his usual frame, this just adds a degree of dexterity he isn’t usually able to manage. You _are_ able to recognize that a portion of what you’re feeling is just a reaction to your gift being rejected. You try to repeat that to yourself.

Megatron takes his hand from yours, returning it to your waist. You look upwards, to his face, but his expression is as unreadable as usual.

MG: They make other things easier as well.

Before you can ask what he means, you feel him shift behind you, feel his hands start to drift over your plating, down lower over your stomach. Towards your array.

You lean back into Megatron, setting your hands on his arms, moving with him as he touches you. You let your head rest against his chest, hoping your relief isn’t too terribly obvious. You aren’t naive, you know better than to think this means he’s considering keeping the hands. _Still._

And you let the moment stretch out, long and luxurious, neither of you speaking. Your panel is still closed, and his fingers brush over your plating slowly, without any rush or urgency. You can feel the clumsiness in his touch, and try not to think about how quickly he would adapt if he agreed to even _sometimes_ wear the hands— No. You’re not going to let yourself circle back to that right now.

Instead, you dim your optics, force yourself to relax, and let yourself bask in the warmth of Megatron’s frame. The heat rises slowly, and both of your fans spin up. There are times you’d demand Megatron pin you up against the wall or have you on top of your desk, too impatient to stand the idea of _waiting_ for anything, but right now, you’re silent, and simply let your hands rest on top of his arms, moving lazily with him as he touches you.

But as slowly as the heat builds, it builds steadily. In a few kliks, your array is pinging you insistently, and you have to focus to keep your panel closed. You aren’t— You aren’t _opposed_ to opening your panel. It’s only that you can’t help thinking that the sooner this ends, the sooner Megatron will be setting the new hands aside, and you aren’t willing to be the one to push things forward.

So it goes on, long enough that you begin to wonder if he means to make you overload without ever opening your panel. It lasts until Megatron finally pulls back minutely and sends you a message.

MG: Berth?

Yes. You suppose. No, that’s not fair. You _want_ the berth, you want to take your time and savor the experience and get everything you can from this, before it stops being an option. You can tell that you’re not handling this as gracefully as you could, but you’re _trying,_ and you still smile for Megatron and let him lead you across the apartment to the berth chamber.

You seat yourself on the edge of the berth first, expecting him to join you. He doesn’t, exactly. He stays standing, looking down at you, until he reaches out with his hands to touch your thighs. You take his meaning without needing a comm and spread your legs for him.

He steps into that space, and you can’t help a shiver when you feel the heat of him so close to your array. When you feel the plating of his legs pressed against yours, you give up on keeping your panel shut and let it open. Megatron reaches out as your spike pressurizes, and you know it’s not that different from what you’ve done before, but now you’re watching his fingers curl around your spike, and _he’s_ watching it too, and you shiver again.

But as good as that touch feels, Megatron’s panel is still closed, and you want _more._ You reach out to brush your fingers across his plating. You begin, “Your spike—”

MG: No.  
MG: Not yet.

He reaches up with his free hand to touch your cheek, and you glance up at him. He’s studying you closely, and you let yourself smile. That hand drifts down from your face, over your chest and stomach. Then it goes past your spike, down lower. Megatron rests his hand over your valve for a moment, the heat of his palm pressed against your array. You place one of your hands on your thigh, next to his, just to savor the size difference. You’re used to how large his claws are, but seeing the way his _hands_ dwarf yours is still novel and exhilarating.

You’ve had plenty of time together to push your frame to adjust to the size of Megatron’s spike, so even as large as his hands are, one finger inside you is only enough to make you crave _more._ Megatron knows that, knows how much you can take— But he takes his time, pushing that one finger deep into you, slowly, and pulling it out, even more slowly. You try to focus on watching him instead. Looking at the hand still holding your spike. Looking at the hand against your valve, one finger inside you, the others curled down against his palm. Megatron is watching his hands too, and you bite your glossa so you don’t forget yourself and demand _more._ You’re taking your time.

You’re taking an agonizingly long time, apparently. You’d almost think Megatron was determined to bring you to overload just like this, except is touch on your spike is too light for true satisfaction, and this isn’t _enough_ in your valve to let the tension build inside you. But finally, finally, he pauses and you feel his hand moving— And he adds a second finger to your valve.

You almost begin laughing. You are smiling, more broadly than you meant to. It’s— something you can’t help. You feel a rush of affection that isn’t a surprise, but still sweeps you along with it, helpless to resist. Megatron is looking at you.

MG: What?

“Nothing.” You do reach up with one hand and bring him down towards you, close enough that you can kiss his helm once, and then release him. “I _can_ take more than that, you know.”

MG: I know.

He knows, but isn’t planning to do anything about it, apparently. He stays there with you, his helm resting against, yours, both of you watching his hands moving against your array. Like this, with nothing to do _but_ watch, you can’t help noticing that for the hand on your spike, the fingers all move largely as a unit instead of separately, some fingers not quite flush with your plating. That’s unsurprising, it will take time to adjust, but it does make you wonder how long he’ll keep you at his mercy before allowing you to overload.

Though with time— At first you aren’t sure if you’re imagining it, and you _are_ somewhat distracted by all the sensory feedback from your array, but you can see his hand adjust, gradually, each finger finding the surface of your spike, his grip adjusting to apply more even pressure. _That_ you can feel.

And that’s what Megatron has been waiting for, you think, because you _certainly_ feel it when he apparently becomes satisfied with his new control and wraps his fingers more firmly around you. You’re— You’ve been used to his claws, you’re used to everything he can do with them, you’d _forgotten_ what it felt like to have someone’s hands on you like this, and you’re left flushed with heat at how much _more_ this is. It’s not the same as your own hands on yourself, and it’s not the same as his claws against your spike, and it’s been too long since you shared this with a partner.

Which is when he turns his attention to his _other_ hand. Just from the way he’s touching your spike, you can feel the heat starting to wind tighter in your array. But you can feel the hand against your valve moving too. There’s nothing wrong with what he’s doing there, you might be able to take _more_ , but two fingers is enough for you to feel the stretch, and if he’s willing to let you overload, you _can_ overload like this. For a few nanokliks, you think he’s going to give you another finger, and you’re ready, you’re very ready for this— So it takes you by surprise when instead his hand uncurls and you feel his thumb press against your node.

You gasp out loud and jerk in place before you pull yourself back under control. Megatron’s helm still is resting against yours, and you reach up to wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him even closer towards you. The touch on your node is just a steady pressure, but his hand is still moving against your spike and you can feel the stretch in your valve, and after so long of too little, the tension is building quickly inside you and you’re so close to overload already—

It hits, and you dim your optics and let it wash over you. You’re still holding tight to Megatron. You’re shaking as the overload rocks through you, and Megatron’s hands still on your array, carrying you through it, drawing it out and out.

When that sensation finally begins to approach _too much,_ you twist slightly in place, and Megatron’s touch lightens. His hands don’t leave you entirely, which is fortunate, or you would have demanded he put them back. And you don’t release him either. You aren’t anywhere close to being finished with this encounter, and you’re very aware that Megatron hasn’t even opened his panel yet. Your spike depressurizes, and you shudder as he pulls his fingers from your valve, but he leaves his hands still resting against your array.

Eventually, you manage to untangle one arm around his neck and reach down between the two of you to press your hand against his array. His panel is hot against your fingers. After a moment, you manage to sort out your vocalizer. “I hope you don’t think I was planning to stop after one round.”

The click of his panel under your fingers is enough of an answer, and the way he leans forward into you, frame to frame, pushing your legs even further apart is even better. You can hear how fast his fans are running, and you can _feel_ his spike as it pressurizes, sliding against your array, hot and inviting. You lean back on the berth, lying flat and swinging up your legs, urging him along with you. He follows, kneeling between your thighs and looming over you, watching you so closely you fight the urge to look away.

Instead, you reach to take his spike in hand and guide it into you, but he had that thought before you, and your fingers run into his, both of you holding his spike together. You shudder as he presses into you, burying himself in your valve. stretching you wide open. Then with his other hand, he brushes his thumb across your spike casing, and it’s all so _much_ you feel halfway to your next overload already.

You arch up into him, waiting for him to begin moving— And he doesn’t. You hesitate, looking up at him, wondering what the delay is. But he catches one of your hands, then, carefully, the other, and pins them to the berth on either side of your head, your fingers tangled with his. You can’t help shivering as you look up at him, holding tight to his hands, feeling him in you and over you. And you know this won’t last, you know that when you’re done you’ll have to take his hands off and hide them away and you don’t know when—or if—he’ll be willing to use them again. But for now, you can’t shake off the thrill you feel as you watch him watching you, enjoying the sensation of his hands around yours.

So when you smile up at Megatron, it’s entirely sincere. He bends down low, and without being prompted, you kiss his helm. And kiss him one more time for good measure. And then you shift in place, settling your array against his, savoring the feeling of him in your valve, and ask him, “What are you waiting for?”

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](https://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/184841954341/when-youre-finished-with-this-dream-spockandawe)   
>  [Twitter](https://twitter.com/spockandawe/status/1127797628001976320)


End file.
